"The Rowan Tree" a novel of Fantasy and Steam
an excerpt

This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.
© 2007 Warlord

The Rowan Tree
By: Warlord

In the yard there grows a Rowan.
Thou with reverent care should'st tend it.
Holy is the tree there growing.
Holy likewise are its branches.
On its boughs the leaves are holy.
And its berries yet more holy.

Excerpt from The Kalevala,
a compilation of Finnish folk lore

Prologue

The Mountain Ash that graced our boulevard covering the ground with its leaves and hard red berries succumbed to the fury of a September thunderstorm. Breaking off cleanly at ground level falling along the sidewalk with a tremendous crash lit by the continuous chain lightning.

The next day we stood on the soggy ground while my father cut the trunk into barely manageable lengths with his bow saw.

As kids will I decided that I needed a slingshot. My father cut a convenient fork plus a nice straight piece, “There make a slingshot and a baton.”

The forked stick was too slender to make a decent slingshot (that might have been his intent) but still I carefully stroked them with sandpaper and emery then polished varnished and oiled my two sticks until they shone from the tung oil.

Likely I even played at leading my big imaginary orchestra with the baton but then as kids often will, I forgot…

Chapter 1

As I dashed to the house dodging the September raindrops I paused on the porch to gather the weekend mail.

I was puzzled by the package carefully balanced on top of the mailbox. I did not recognize the return address nor the careful handwriting on the label.

Inside, shrugging out of my raincoat I dumped package, mail, and briefcase on the dining room table. Toweling my hair dry I started the fire under the teapot and dug out the big jar of honey. The chill rain cried out for tea, honey and a wee dollop of brandy.

Mail was quickly sorted, catalogs into the recycling pile along with most of the bulk mail with the useful missives and bills in a more compact array. With that accomplished I turned to the mystery package.

Torn brown paper revealed a badly tattered musical instrument case. The kind a flute or clarinet might travel in. The worn case sitting on my table was mute in solving my mystery.

I popped the two tarnished catches and flipped open the case.

Unconsciously I felt myself smile as memory blossomed. Someone, my Gran, from the look had decided to preserve my polished twigs.

The ‘baton’ and the “Y” shaped fork were both lying in the padded case on a bed of ash leaves surrounded by garlands of dried red seeds. I was grinning as I thought of Gran carefully laying the ash berries in the case with the leaves she collected.

She was nominally Irish Catholic but when no one was around to stifle the conversation Gran easily drifted back to her Celtic home island’s Druid roots.

I reached out to pick up the “Y” branch by a slender fork marveling at my youthful care in finishing the wood. As the branch moved sideways out of the case my fingers jolted in a static spark.

I dropped the stick shaking my fingers, “Now what the hell caused that?”

Moving the instrument case cover revealed the sterling silver place setting that decorated the table hidden from view. Frowning I stared at the silver cutlery, “That couldn’t be it. Could it?”

I picked the forked stick straight up by the slender branches. Holding it horizontally in my two hands I pointed the end over the table and gently panned it sideways.

Shit, there it was again. I held on this time as I focused to see the metal utensils just below the end of the stalk of polished wood.

I froze, barking out loud, “Holy shit, this is a dowsing rod.”

The testing of my “dowsing rod” proceeded apace after a slightly bigger dollop of brandy in a lowball glass with no ice…

Walking slowly across the kitchen floor, I came to actually ‘feel’ the difference between copper water pipes, electrical wires, and sheet metal ventilating duct. My trek across the basement located the sewer and water pipes while a short trip outside found the copper locator wire on the plastic gas pipe through the wet ground.

Then I looked through my ‘junk drawer’ to find a gold ring and silver dollar. Tossing them on the living room carpet, it was no trick to locate them even playing with the lights off.

The feel on my fingers was palpably different for each element as well.

Finally exhausted and deeply confused I glanced at the clock. I’d been at this for hours.

I gently set the drowsing stick back in its padded case as I stretched and yawned utterly tired.

I was beyond thinking wanting only my big soft bed.

*****

My eyes opened to the sound of pounding on my back door. The big red numbers read: 4:17

I mused, “This can’t be good.”

As I reached into the bedside drawer and scooped up my SIG 229, a touch on the grip turned on the Crimson Trace laser. I pulled on my jeans as my feet automatically found my docksiders the hoodie followed as I stumbled down the stairs

As I peered through the back door, the porch light shined on a cascade of honey blonde curls. Tucking the pistol into my sweatshirt pocket I cracked the door to see a face just as lovely in close up as the cloudy glass hinted.

She was wearing a Victorian riding habit, buttoned modestly panel and all, a confection of silk and wool with a scarf protecting her hair from the weather.

Behind her, off the porch, out in that rainy weather were two men clad in leather.

One of them was very large, NFL big! The other only looked small be comparison. They looked miserable. The water dripping off the end of Mr. Pro Bowl Tackles nose would have been amusing on a smaller man perhaps one who was not frowning so hard!

I toed the outer door open saying softly, “May I help you?”

Just as I leaned out to hear miss honey blonde, a noise to my right startled me. I wheeled to confront an athletic dark haired beauty in a leather bustier. The laser red blossomed on her chest as we froze.

“Please…”

I glanced at the blonde who whispered urgently, “Please, she is…”

She paused, “We are…”

Taking a deep breath she finally got it out, ”We are bound, Sir Mage.”

“Huh?”

I cocked my wrist panning the laser to the right, away from the brunette as my eyes swiveled to the blonde.

Funny what you notice all in a burst. A series of quick flash pictures. The big man was carrying a flanged mace and had what appeared to be a massive claymore on his back with the two-handed grip visible next to his head while his smaller companion had a bearded axe. They were dressed in rough leather jerkins. Very wet jerkins. The brunette’s leather bustier was a breastplate with two sword hilts visible in cross draw.

“We would speak to you Sir Mage. Please.”

The blonde’s soft entreaty broke through my scattered disjointed thoughts.

I looked back at the black maned beauty. Something was subtly wrong with her appearance. I couldn’t put my finger on the reason for my unease. She suddenly smirked into my frown, flipping back her hair to reveal her ears. Showing me the auricle coming to a point. On top! Exactly like a Vulcan!

Now the blonde’s torrent of words, “Sir Mage we scryed you. Well, our witch did. Well, she’s not really our witch… She’s more like the local hedge witch… “

Picking up speed, “…She sensed your magic. Incredible power. So much power, she could use it…”

She dimpled prettily as she wound down, “…Placing us in the shade of your Rowan tree, Sir Mage.”

I goggled, “My what?”

Big Man pointed at my Mountain Ash visible in the porches reflected light, “Your Rune Tree, Sir Mage. We call such Rowan.”

TO BE CONTINUED